Where Your Love Ends
by Keung Liu
Summary: France has never existed, until the Canadian referendum of 1999 births a new country from the success of the Quebecois people. Now France, the youngest and last remaining free nation of the world, falls in love with the great Britannian Empire - the man who works only in manipulation and deceit, whose sole purpose is to conquer the world, and whose love he can never have.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Where Your Love Ends

**Cover image taken by:** Erica Holgate

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

**Other notes:** I hadn't really planned this one, it kind of just came to me. So while I was working on editing my larger project, I decided to write this on the side. I've already finished most of it. It's going to be fairly short. Apologies if it seems messy!

* * *

"Who is that?"

The adolescent-sized Canada looks down at his younger brother, who's tugging on his pant leg below. He follows the other's gaze to the figure down the hall, a sharp-looking man dressed in a pressed navy blue coat that's rimmed with gold and knee-high pirate boots. "You know what?" Canada says, kneeling slowly so that he and his brother are on the same level in height, "Maybe it was a bad idea bringing you here."

France, once previously known as Quebec, only pouts that adorable pout of his. "You _promised_," he reminds Canada sternly.

"Okay, okay, okay," Canada whispers. He smooths France's hair down and takes the other's hand. "If you promise to be good."

"Haven't I been?"

It's France's tenth birthday as a nation and Canada _had_ promised. He can't go back on his word now. Even though Quebec — France — is no longer under the rule of Canada (who himself is still under the rule of Great Britain), he still can't do much on his own and needs Canada to show him the ropes.

Honestly, Canada hates it. Every time he sees France all he can think about is Quebec, who's all but lost now. When Quebec decided to split from the rule of England and Canada once and for all, Canada had been heartbroken. And when Quebec finally did split, he lost all his memories in the process and became an entirely different person — this boy right here, who looks barely six in terms of human age.

And the last thing Canada wants to do is act as the new nation's guardian. Dependency had been what had prompted Quebec to split in the first place. Nobody had expected the amnesia to be part of the deal as well — nobody had tried to gain independence from England in the past five hundred years. Every time Canada looks at France he _hurts_.

"I thought you already knew," Canada says. "That's Britain. Or as he prefers to be called, England. He has control over most of the world. When you became the nation you are today, you became one of the first free countries in existence. You still are, France. You're _the_ free country."

"He's the man I fought for independence from?"

_And me_, Canada thinks bitterly. _You were an inherent part of me, too — a part you denied_. "Yes, that's him. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to try to talk to him, though. He kind of…I don't know, France." _He kind of hates you. And he's probably going to go back after you sooner or later, just so he can truly control the world, in name as well. So just stay away from him for now, because your inevitable surrender will be painful._

"I just want to go say hello," France protests.

"No, France," Canada says, tugging the younger nation towards him as the other takes a step forwards. "You said you'd be good. I said I'd bring you to the meeting _only_ if you were good."

"You're not the boss of me," France chimes, and that's what makes Canada drop his hand. France is right — Canada's not the boss of him at all. Even if France is barely out of diapers, Canada has no real authority over his actions.

Finding his hand free, France runs down the corridor, all three feet of him heading straight towards the most powerful man on Earth at twenty kilometers an hour. "England," he calls in the most cheerful way a child ever could, and Canada's heart plummets.

"France," Canada calls, stretching out his hand and urging his legs to chase after his brother. "France, to me!"

The One True Leader of the world, Great Britain, or England, slowly swivels his head around to face the smaller boy. France rams _straight _into him with a _whump!, _pushing England back a little and making him stumble. England's arms instinctively close around the figure that's got its own arms entwined around his waist as he struggles to find his balance, trying not to topple the both of them over.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" England snarls, bringing France away from him.

"I'm France," France beams. "I'm the one who broke away from you ten years ago."

Canada stills. The other three nations who'd also been in that hallway freeze as well. Everyone's eyes are on England, waiting, watching for his reaction. Will he declare war on France right then? Will he torment the poor boy, will he try to show him his place? Will he make the threats that everyone knows will very much come through?

England blinks. And then he smirks.

"_France_," he says in that voice that drips arrogance and superiority. "A darling name to have chosen for yourself."

"I didn't choose it," France responds, ignorant of the horrible danger he's placed himself in. "It's just who I _am_. It's just something I've known ever since I first woke up."

England lowers himself on one knee so that he and France are eye to eye. His hands are gripping France's upper arms so hard that Canada thinks they're going to leave bruises. And even still, all Canada can do is stand there and watch as England holds his little brother's life in his hands, not dissimilar to the way an irresponsible child might hold a fascinating insect between his palms. "France," England repeats in a whisper-soft voice. He tilts his head slowly to one side. "How nice of you to have finally showed your face after all these years."

France visibly swallows.

"You know," England says, in a pondering way, "If I'd really wanted to bother, I would have crushed your nation long ago."

England was right. Canada remembers how he'd been so preoccupied with conquering other rebelling factions that he hadn't paid Quebec any mind when the province started holding referendums himself. If England had spared Quebec even a minute of his time, he would have absolutely _destroyed_ him.

"The last free nation of the world," England smirks. "If I have you, I have…_everything_."

France doesn't say a word, just focuses on England's green eyes with his lips slightly parted.

"Go on," England whispers. "Go enjoy your freedom while you still can." And he releases France, straightens himself, and runs his fingers through France's hair. "I'll be coming for you soon, though, my little one."

And then he walks away.

"_France_," Canada cries, running the last few meters between him and his brother and throwing his arms around the nation. "What the _hell_ were you thinking? He could have killed you. You could've gotten yourself into so much trouble."

France just turns to Canada numbly, after finally tearing his eyes away from the spot England had just been standing in. He looks at Canada with his wide blue eyes, and says in a clear, unwavering voice,

"I think I love him."

And so went France's first meeting with The Conquerer and the Terror, the Evening and the Morning Star, and the One True Leader of the doomed, enslaved world.


	2. Chapter One

**Title:** Where Your Love Ends

**Cover image taken by:** Erica Holgate

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

**Other notes:** I don't know how often I can update this story. . I'll try to do it at least once a week. This has become my August project, so I should have plenty of time to get it all done by the time school starts again. Thanks :)

* * *

The next time France meets England again it's four years later and France is in the gangly, awkward teenage stage of human appearance. Nation-wise he is doing rather poorly. As he is the only country cut off from the rest of the world with just Canada (and occasionally America) to send him supplies and assistance when the need arises, there is a lot he is still struggling with. Much has been on France's mind since his last meeting with his self-proclaimed destined soul mate, and the nation has had a very short amount of time to do a very large amount of maturing. His eyes have already begun to take on the tired and weary look of elder countries.

But when France sees England, all of these troubles are essentially forgotten in an instant. It's at the annual World Meeting that they see each other, a meeting France has neglected to attend for the past three years due to the dire need of seeing-to of his people.

France hasn't come with Canada this time. In fact, he hasn't even really spoken to Canada for the past ten months. He's truly his own nation now, and he even dresses like such. He's chosen the careful colours of blue, white, and red to decorate the cloth he adorns that symbolizes his country — colours that mimic the ones England uses as well.

England is seated a few chairs away from him, and for the entirety of the meeting France can't stop fidgeting. It's obvious enough to him who exactly is in charge in the room. England practically _oozes_ confidence and power. Those who have been seated next to him quake in their seats whenever he moves, and often enough everyone casts a quick glance at the current superpower just to make sure he hasn't done anything different but sit stock-still in his seat and take a sip of his drink every once in a while.

When the first half of the meeting for the first day is over, France climbs unsteadily to his feet and heads out the door. He doesn't exactly want to socialize at the particular moment, but then he feels a heavy hand fall on his shoulder and he spins around, preparing himself for the worst.

Instead, he sees the absolute opposite from the worst — England's face. And France's heart flutters.

"Sir," France says, feeling very small. Truthfully, France has thought about the other a lot. Their first meeting four years ago, England had literally _captured_ his heart. France wants nothing more than to chase after the older man for the rest of his life, to do whatever he wants him to, to make the other laugh and be happy.

"I see you've grown," England says. And then the superpower _smiles_. And France thinks his pulse stops for an instant.

France can feel the heat that's slowly rising up his cheeks and ears. He nods furiously and tears his eyes away from the other's piercing gaze and looks at the floor instead. "Y-yes, sir," he stammers. _I want you, all of you_, the voice in his head shouts at the proximity of the main character of all his reveries. _I want it to be just you and me, and no one else in the world —_

"I was thinking of going for a cup of tea. You should join me. You could tell me all about…yourself."

England's voice is so deep and smooth and dominant, and France can't help but wonder how on earth anyone is able to resist it. He doesn't think he himself would be able to keep a conversation with this man for more than a few minutes before he blushes himself to death.

He nods anyway.

England lifts an elbow, and France looks at it wildly wondering what the hell he's supposed to do. Then he realizes that he's supposed to take it, so he loops his hand around England's lower arm and grips it lightly, careful not to scrunch up the fine coat the other is wearing. England's _escorting him there_. They're actually going to walk together, _together_, there. France doesn't look back. He can already feel the judging looks of the other nations.

Really, France doesn't understand why so many people are afraid of England or refuse to talk to him unless they're talked to. Sure, England may hold control over every nation in the world, and sure, England may possess an arsenal of nuclear weapons large enough to destroy the Earth sixteen times over, but even still, France can't bring himself to be fearful of him. And he's so nice, inviting France to tea, seeming interested in France's story, escorting him there.

France doesn't see the problem everyone else has with the superpower. He thinks they should all just give him a chance, or something.

When they walk, France finds himself having to step a little faster just to be able to catch up with the taller man. England towers over him by at least a head and shoulders. They exit the building together, and they're actually _really_ close now, because France has suddenly found his other hand gripping England's arm as well as they squeeze past the crowds of unknowing citizens. Every step France takes he's brushing against England in some way or another.

And there's about a million thoughts running through his head, thinking, _I want to make him fall in love with me. I want him to think about me half as much as I've thought about him over the past years._

By the time they arrive at the coffee shop, France is shaking in his boots. England leaves him at a two-person table while he goes to order their drinks, and France can't help but watch the other as he goes. He can still feel the fabric of England's coat underneath his fingers, and he can still feel the warmth that emanates from the other's body.

When England returns, it's with a cup of tea in one hand and a cappuccino in the other. France accepts the latter and takes a small sip from it and feels it positively lighting him up from the inside, not because the drink is all that fantastic, but because it was given to him from _England_.

"I've not seen you for a long time," England says, stirring his tea and looking off at the other customers in the shop.

"I guess," France says. He wants to curse himself because his English really isn't that fantastic and he has a French accent and it's almost embarrassing. Back at home, he'd been proud of it — he's proud of practically everything and anything French — but here in London, he just feels like an outcast. "I was busy with my people. Sir."

"Ah, the new French people of the world. Tell me, how are they?"

How can England remain so cool and composed like that when France just feels like breaking down into tears? "Everything's going along fine. We're in a bit of a rough spot at the moment, since we're so cut off from you and everything, sir, but I think we'll be okay. I mean, we always are. We have each other. The French are starting to learn pride from all this work, and that makes me happy. We have to be able to depend on each other." France looks down at his cup.

"I've been keeping track of your progress ever since I first heard of your existence," England says softly. "You're doing well for a nation of only fourteen years old."

"I've had a lot of help, sir," France admits truthfully. Canada's always been there for him. And sometimes, America, too. "Not many people know about me yet, but those who do have been very supportive."

"Which nations, out of curiosity?" asks England.

France sees no harm in telling him. "Canada and America," he says, although he feels as though he's somehow betraying the two by saying it. Who is he to deny the superpower, though?

"Interesting. I was actually thinking of sending you help myself."

"Wh-what?"

"Did you not hear what I just said?" England raises an eyebrow, and France shrinks back in his seat. "I could send you provisions and men to help build your nation. Perhaps speed up the process a little. And money; I have a lot of that, and I don't quite know what to do with it." England gives France a purposeful look.

France is stunned. "S-sir," he says, honestly wishing he was a little braver so that his people would have someone to look up to, "This isn't a proposal to ask me to join your Empire, is — is it?"

England laughs. He actually laughs — throws back his head and lets out a throaty, bark of laughter that sounds half-patronizing. "No, my sweet boy," he says. "I have no interest in conquering your lands. We both know I _can_; I'm just not willing to. I'd like to see you grow a little, see how far you can go. Don't worry about my intentions; I'm not all that bad."

France lets out a sigh of relief. He _knew_ it. England's not interested in him just because he happens to be the only country he doesn't have possession of; England's interested in him because he's kind and understanding, and actually _cares_ about this new nation's wellbeing. France allows himself a small smile behind the rim of his cup. He wonders if his hair looks nice enough. He wonders what England meant by _you've grown, _and if it's in a good or bad way.

France pats down one side of his hair when he thinks England's not looking, and when the superpower turns back around he immediately drops his hand. England stares at him with this curious look on his face that France can't discern before he reaches over and takes a lock of France's hair carefully between his index finger and thumb.

The French nation freezes. He waits as England tucks the strand of hair back with the rest, and then lean backwards in his chair and take out a cigarette. France doesn't take his eyes off him the entire time, just watches as England smokes casually in the coffee shop (that probably prohibits smoking).

France already regrets not having come to these World Meetings when he was younger, if only so that he and England could have had this conversation so much earlier.

England taps his fingers on the table thoughtfully. He hasn't said a word in a while. Finally, after what seems like forever, he reaches his hand across the table and says, "Remove the ring from my index finger."

France is a little bit confused, but complies. There's only one ring on England's right hand, and it's a huge golden band with some kind of gorgeous jewel in the middle. France removes it carefully, trying not to touch the superpower at all. He holds the ring limp in his palm as he waits for further instruction.

"Put it on your finger."

France looks up. Utterly lost now, he slips it on his middle finger — the only finger the ring fits on without falling off. "It's for you," England says when he sees France's face. England leans forwards, smoothing away France's forehead locks, and plants a gentle kiss there. Then he whispers, right in France's ear, "Come to my room tonight. As for my proposition…well, think about it. Meeting starts in ten minutes, so I'm heading back. Don't move from this spot until I'm outside."

So France waits, and watches, as England pushes himself off the chair and exits the shop. And he wonders what people usually mean when they say _Come to my room tonight._


	3. Chapter Two

**Title:** Where Your Love Ends

**Cover image taken by:** Erica Holgate

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

**Other notes:** I have a really bad excuse for not updating in a while. I actually lost my account information for FFnet, because I usually have it saved on my laptop but then my friend came on it and wanted to go on _her_ account...and then I completely forgot the fact that I changed my e-mail, too. Anyway, long story short, everything's back in order now, but I'm a lot busier now that school's started, so we'll see about these updates.

Thanks for your reviews/favourites/follows, everyone. There will never be a time when I don't appreciate them.

Also, can I just quickly explain a thing? The land in Europe that is, in reality, France, is now being occupied by Germany (who is under the rule of the British Empire). Let's just assume that Gaul existed and was divided and owned by HRE and blah blah blah but the land never technically became _France_. French-speaking people still existed in Europe, though, and became a language spoken throughout the continent. The Scandinavians found Canada and was taken by the Spanish in the time of their rule. Britain's main adversary was Spain, not France, and most historical events still played their way out only with Spain in the place of the other. The British Empire never fell apart, not even in WWI, and the great wars never needed America's help to defeat the Germans, though Germany _did_ manage to take the European area of France.

* * *

Canada stops him on his way back to his hotel room.

France has been expecting it, of course, but that doesn't make him any less angry that his brother nation is trying to interfere with him in his affairs. He tries to shake the other's grip off his arm, and when that fails to work, France spins around hatefully and with a blazing glare.

"Don't touch me," he says. Canada's hold on him is strong and when the older nation hears his words, the hold only tightens.

"France, don't misunderstand," Canada pleads in a hushed whisper, dropping to his knees in front of France in a soothing manner. He lets go of France's arms. "You don't _know_ England. He's technically my father figure, in a manner of speaking, though he's never been much of one to me. You haven't seen what he's done — you don't know what he plans on doing. Please promise me you'll stay away from him, France. _Please_."

France's face softens. France knows that deep inside, he's still a child — he's fourteen in terms of nation age, and twelve in terms of physical maturity — but he _feels _invincible, especially around England. He wishes Canada would understand, because he loves Canada, but Canada's never made him feel the way England has for all these years. "Okay," France nods, really wanting to believe the other but at the same time really wanting to leave and find England. He'll play along for now.

"Okay?"

"Okay. I said okay."

Canada stands and looks worriedly down at France, and France can't understand for a second why his brother's doing that. Why everyone hates England. He can't control himself when he starts to cry, sniffling pitifully into his sleeves, trying desperately to wipe away the tears that Canada has already obviously seen. "Boo," Canada says, and France can almost feel the other's heart break with the nickname, the one he hasn't used for years and years. Canada drops to his knees once again and wraps France up in his arms. "Maybe I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong. I wish I was."

"I'm not a kid," France whispers through hushed hiccups, though he knows that that's not true. "I don't _feel_ like a kid. I wish you'd just see how nice England is to me, and how I'm old enough to do whatever I want."

Canada hesitates at that, but even if he was going to answer with something, France wouldn't have heard it anyway, because he buries his face in Canada's shoulder and trembles until Canada's picks him up and puts him in bed.

It's only after France has fallen asleep that Canada says, "I'm only trying to protect you."

But of course, no one hears.

* * *

Of course France doesn't feel like a child, Canada reckons. France is the reincarnate of Quebec, a province that was just as old as he is. No wonder he's so smart and emotionally conflicted; wrap the subconscious mental maturity of a two hundred year old province with the naiveness and innocence of a fourteen year old baby nation together and nothing easy will ever come out of it.

Canada knocks at England's hotel room door. It's almost twelve in the morning, but Canada knows that England doesn't sleep for another four or five hours. It's either because England must always be on his guard due to the large number of people who would probably be willing to kill him if given the chance, or because England's plagued with his nightmares from the atrocities he's committed. Canada highly doubts it's the latter, but he hopes it is.

"Come in," comes a voice from inside.

Canada opens the door cautiously. What he sees makes his eyes immediately widen — England's sitting on the edge of his bed, one knee tucked into him, the other leg stretched out, but he's surrounded by what looks like the weapons of a torture room. Bloodstained knives lie haphazardly on the clean white sheets of the bed; there are chains and spiked neck devices and metal spears and ropes and what looks like a giant pile of needles. England doesn't look up, but he can probably already tell that it's Canada, and he doesn't seem surprised to see him.

"Father, this is a _public_ hotel room," Canada accuses. As soon as the words slip out of his mouth, he immediately regrets them; England has been known to kill people simply because they hadn't respected him enough. He's never done that to a nation before, but Canada doesn't want to take any risks, even if he can't technically die forever.

England's in the middle of sharpening an already-sharp butcher's knife. "Canada," he says quietly, his tone deadly soft and menacing. "Close the door, please."

Canada does, and stills his trembling. Honest to God, he's only spent a few seconds in this room, and he's never been so scared in his life. Not when he'd witnessed the brutal massacre of his people when England took him from Spain, not when he was fighting in the Somme, not when England had slit Kuma's throat and emptied him dry of blood, all while making the younger nation watch.

"I've come to speak to you about France," he says, because he's always been brave. Quiet, but brave.

England says nothing; he's waiting for Canada to go on.

"I want you to leave him alone. I know what you're after, Father, and I know what you're trying to do. I know what you've _done_ in the past and I've only ever sat by, watching you passively — everyone has — but I'm going to tell you right now that that's not going to happen anymore. Leave him. Alone."

Still, England says nothing. His silence gives Canada hope, and fear, but then the seconds stretch on, and Canada feels more and more apprehensive all the while, until finally England breaks the quiet of the moment —

"I invited France to my room earlier this afternoon. Do you know what I'd been planning on doing to him?"

Canada swallows, but he does it discreetly, because he cannot show any weakness in front of the British Empire. Not like he has before. Not ever, not again.

England raises the butcher's knife in front of his face, examining it in the dim light of the room. He places it aside and stands up, and though Canada wants to instinctively take a step back, he doesn't.

England gestures to the array of crude weapons in front of him. "Trying out one of these on him," England says nonchalantly. "No, not one; several, maybe all of them. Tying him against the bedpost and suffocating him until he died, and then waiting for him to come back to life again, and then killing him once more. And then, just when he thinks I've finished, that I'm going to go easy on him now, that everything has just been one big, terrible game — I was going to flip him over, and rape him until his screams filled the night and the poundings on my door from my neighbour hotel residents become unbearable."

Canada doesn't say anything for a while, until he does. "I know," he says. "I stopped him from coming here tonight."

"Did you, now?"

Because Canada, more than anyone else, understands the deep significance of Quebec's freedom. When Quebec broke apart, the other nations were given hope. If a province could become free from the British Empire, why couldn't the rest of them? It was so very possible. Even if they were _all_ reborn in the shape of a new, small nation, perhaps they could escape England's eyes for long enough until they had time to grow, strengthen themselves and rebuilt their armies, and take back the world that England had stolen from them.

France was their symbol of hope, and France was England's downfall. And England had to flay the new nation down before more people found out about him, before England's control slipped away from him forever.

England takes a step towards Canada, his boots making a sharp but muffled sound on the carpeted floor. And then another. And then another. And then, just as Canada doesn't think he can handle the dragging torture any longer, England's just two feet away from him, and the two are eye to eye. Canada doesn't waver, though he's terrified as hell, because all he can see in those green eyes are the reflection of a nation he once loved before England went crazy and ruined _everything_.

"And what will you do next time, _Canada_?" England murmurs, reaching out with a finger to stroke Canada's chin, as though he was a little child again. "What do you plan on doing next time, to stop me?"

Canada doesn't know. He doesn't know. "I don't know," he admits in the end, and England smirks triumphantly as the younger nation's resolve breaks right in front of his eyes.

"Get out of my room," he says, and Canada does, like a dog with its tail between its legs. He escapes out of the room and slams the door shut behind him and then collapses on the nearest wall, his legs shaking and unable to support his weight. He loves France, but he's so scared, and so weak, and all hope of ever escaping the grasp of the British Empire leaves him utterly. Canada contemplates grabbing France right that instant and just _throwing _him into England's room as a sacrifice. _Take one for the team, France_! He'd scream.


	4. Chapter Three

**Title:** Where Your Love Ends

**Cover image taken by:** Erica Holgate

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

* * *

The next day France passes England all of twice, and both times he hurries to look at his feet to resolutely avoid eye contact. This is easier done than said, because for all France knows, England doesn't even care — he doesn't purposely seek out France's gaze, or go out of his way to make France feel bad for not showing, or display any sign that he's offended at all. It seems as though he doesn't even recall their conversation in the coffee shop, and for the next five days of the meeting he continues this charade. France, on the other hand, is overwhelmed with guilt and he plans on meeting England one last time before his departure to apologize and set things right. Damned be the consequences if Canada finds out.

It appears that the elder nation is a step ahead of him, however, because just as France is packing away all his belongings, he hears a light tap at his door. He goes to open it — looking through the peephole first and swallowing grimly — and figures that if England had really wanted to invade him and take over his nation, he would have done it long ago.

"England, sir," he starts, all too rushed, before he's interrupted by the other.

"Please," England says courteously, and smiling as he takes a step in the room. "May I?"

He's already inside, but France nods anyway and moves aside. He hurriedly locks the door behind him after checking the hallway to make sure nobody's seen England enter his room — he doesn't want any more trouble — and turns to press his back against the door, breathing hard and staring doe-eyed at the superpower before him.

"I suppose you were occupied the night I invited you over."

France can't rat Canada out, not after what he promised, so he simply nods. "I was." The lie feels unnatural and vile on his tongue.

"That's a shame. I'd been looking forwards to it. But it doesn't matter, actually."

"It doesn't?"

"Not at all," England says pleasantly.

"Nevertheless." France takes a deep breath and a step towards the other. He pulls the ring off his finger with some effort — the thing was huge, and constricting, and heavy — and puts it in his open palm, offering it back. "I can't accept this. It's too expensive — it's probably worth more than my entire nation in its current state — =and you've been unnecessarily kind to me, sir. Too kind. I don't deserve it, sir."

England smiles again as he reaches over to close France's fingers over the ring. "England," he says quietly. "Call me England."

"England," France quivers.

"I want you to keep the ring, as a token from me. I am not going to ask anything from you in return. On my word, you will never have to pay me back for this — not with interest, not for its exact price, nothing. It's a gift, from a thriving empire to a newly-created state. We look after our own — nations, that is."

After another brief moment of hesitation, France relents. "Okay," he says, trusting him. "Thank you." He slips the ring back on his finger and admires the way the dim hotel light catches it. The ring has a huge, bulbous red jewel in the middle — a jewel so enormous that it looks as though it's hiding a thousand secrets. France returns the smile, albeit a little shyly.

"To be perfectly honest, I've come here because I've been awfully cynical about everything lately," confesses England, walking away from France to sit down on the bed. He steps lightly as he walks, and his boots make no sound. "I keep feeling as though there is something profound sitting on the tip of my tongue, to be spoken at any minute — but then I swallow it, not through any fault of my own, and I'm choked into silence. Do you understand where I'm going?"

France doesn't, but nods to please the emperor. He sits tentatively next to England, and the bed dips with their combined weight.

"Other countries don't like you," France finally says after a period of silence. There — there was the elephant in the room, finally out in the open for everyone to see. "They're all scared of you."

"Yes. But you don't find me — scary, do you?" England asks France genuinely. His face is honest and his entire body is relaxed, and France thinks that perhaps all this time England was just being misunderstood. Because in that moment, England seems very human to France — more human than humans are themselves. There is something in his green eyes that reflects more than just France's silhouette; something akin to fear, perhaps, though _restlessness _may be a better word to describe it.

"I don't," replies France truthfully. Eager to prove himself, he shifts a little — the bed creaks — and says, "I'm not a child anymore. I can be my own judge of character, and I don't need nations like Canada to hold my hand. I think people mistake you for something you aren't more than you really deserve."

"There are things that I've done," England says, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, "That I'm not proud of. But other people — don't other people make mistakes too, mistakes that they regret, mistakes that they wish they could take back?"

_I regret not having met you earlier. I regret not having come to the previous Meetings. _

"Yes," France says, trying to understand England's position and where he was coming from. He thinks about how England was said to have just wanted France's land and resources — but England hasn't tried anything for the past week. Besides, France thinks that if this means that England was reciprocating his feelings in any way, then he'd be happy to give up his status as the last free nation on Earth. What was the big deal, anyway? He'd _like _being owned by England. "I think so."

"Thank you for sympathizing with me," England says, with a relieved smile. "You are young, but you are bold and brave, and I think there is hope for you. You'll be a strong nation and I admire that more than any of the other character traits the nations have. It's why I conquered them in the first place; they were too weak, too lackluster…they weren't like _you_. You," he laughs a little, lifting a hand carefully to brush France's hair away from his face, "You are _different_. Special."

"I'm not that special," France says, his face heating up.

"You're special to me." And all at once all of France's body is heating up like a torch and his brain is spinning with a million different thoughts and emotions. England presses his lips to his head and whispers, "Please keep in touch. We may not meet for at least another year. You and I are alike; I don't want to lose you, not so soon after I've found you."

"I'll write you letters," France promises. "I'll call you and write you letters."

"Good boy."

With another smile, England stands up and walks to the door. He looks back at France and France can't help but feel giddy inside with that one look. His left hand — the one with the ring on it — feels heavier than he can handle. There is so much weight in France's heart that has nothing to do with sadness; instead, he's been burdened with the greatest joy of all, and he has no idea how to handle it.

* * *

America's sitting with his legs up on the meeting table, alone in the conference room, when France finds him.

"America," he calls softly, notifying the other of his presence.

"Hey, France," America says, quickly turning around and giving France a bright smile and thumbs up. "Come here, buddy."

France rushes over to America's side and gives the other a bone-crushing hug. "I'll miss you," France says into the fur of the other's bomber jacket, his voice muffled by the material. "I hope we'll get to see each other soon, and not just at the next World Meeting."

"Dude, I'm over at Mattie's literally every single day. You're plenty invited to join us. Fact, I'm pretty sure we invited you over for dinner at least three times last year. You declined each time."

"I was so busy," says France, feeling precariously close to yet more tears. "It was such a huge mistake. I should have come to the last World Meeting and the ones before that, too. I shouldn't have missed them."

"That wasn't what I was talking about." America frowns, and pushes France away from him and studies him at arm's length. "Uh…are you okay?"

"I hadn't known what I was missing," France cries. He was finally returning down from his high of having talked to England — all of twice this past week. England, who'd been the center of his dreams for so long. There was something so magical in having an expectation be completely blown out of comprehension, and, if anything, France thinks that he's even more in love with the empire. He was in a completely hysterical state, where he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in a hole in the ground and cry, and take in the weight of the events that had happened to the fullest extent. Never before has anyone made France feel the way England does. Never again would he miss another World Meeting — never again would he miss an opportunity to see England — never again would he take any sort of reciprocation England returns to him for granted. He was in love and he was invincible.

"I'd miss this too if I were you," America jokes, gesturing to himself. France wipes his eyes and grins loftily, before America's phone goes off and starts to ring. "Sec. Hello?"

The atmosphere in the room shifts suddenly; America's joking demeanor vanishes in an instant, and his entire body goes rigid. France slips off his lap just in time because America stands up. "What? What? When was this? What the fuck?"

"What is it?" asks France. America waves him away.

"Oh, God," he says, his face paling. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no…Oh, God…Okay. Okay. Thank you. I'll be there in a minute, no more. Tell him I'll be there!" He hangs up.

"What is it?" asks France, really worried now.

"Mattie," America says, shaking violently and stalking towards the door, taking huge strides as he goes. "Mattie's been attacked. He's in critical condition. We have to go to the hospital, now."

Numb, France follows.


End file.
